"Not if they're dead," she replied coldly. "You seem particularly dense on this subject, Elder. You both do. The equation's simple: rebellious heads rear up; we cut them off. What's so hard to understand about that?"
Grentor was anxiously fingering his string of beads and summoning the nerve to say something more.
" Wait," Jennesta said, stilling them with a raised hand. She looked up, an expression of concentration on her face, as though she heard something they couldn't.
They stood in silence for what seemed an eternity. Grentor and Hacher began to wonder if this was another of Jennesta's eccentricities. Or, knowing her, the prelude to unpleasantness.
Something swooped out of the darkness. They thought it was a bird. A hawk, perhaps, or a raven. But when it came to rest on Jennesta's outstretched arm they saw it had only the superficial appearance of a bird. In subtle but noticeable ways it was like no bird that ever flew. It had the look of magic about it.
The creature moved along her arm and chirruped gutturally into Jennesta's ear. She listened intently. When it finished she made a gesture, as though brushing a speck of dust from her sleeve. The enchantment was annulled in a soundless explosion, instantly transforming the ersatz bird into a myriad of shimmering golden sparks. The glowing pinpoints gently faded as they were carried away by the evening breeze. All that lingered was the pungent smell of sulphur.
"I have tidings," Jennesta told them, her face like flint. "It seems your minority of troublemakers have wiped out one of our garrisons. If you want a more graphic example of my point, just say so."
Neither man spoke.
"You two need a little adjustment to your attitudes," she went on icily. "Things are going to be different in this land, even if I have to have every orc in it put to the sword. Be assured, change is coming." She turned and strode towards her carriage.
Hacher and Grentor watched her go. Then, as on every other night during the past several weeks, their eyes were drawn skyward.
There was a new star in the firmament, larger and brighter than all the rest.
3
" Keep your eyes on the road! " Stryke bellowed.
" All right, all right! " Haskeer yelled, knuckles white on the reins.
In the back of the open wagon Coilla, Dallog, Brelan and new recruit Wheam hung on grimly.
They took a corner at speed. The wagon's wheels lifted on one side, then crashed down at the turn, jarring all of them. Seconds later, half a dozen mounted troopers rounded the bend in hot pursuit. They were quickly followed by a much larger contingent of riders. Some of them had open tunics flapping in the wind, or were minus jackets and headgear altogether, due to the sudden, unexpected start of the chase. Behind them were several wagons filled with militia, and even a buggy carrying a couple of officers. Farther back still, a mob of troops dashed to keep up on foot.
The Wolverines' wagon was in one of Taress' main thoroughfares now, a wide avenue lined with some of the city's more substantial buildings. It thronged with mid-morning crowds, and startled orcs dived clear of the speeding wagon and the humans chasing it.
Stryke's crew weaved through a sea of merchants' carts, lone riders, occupiers' carriages and strings of mules. There were scrapes and collisions, and much cursing and waving of fists. The wagon clipped a trader's handcart, flipping it. Turnips and apples bounced across the road, getting underfoot of horses and passersby. Riders and pedestrians went down.
Those at the roadside weren't immune. Some of the pursuing humans took to the walkways, scattering bystanders and ploughing through peddlers' stalls. In the process, several riders struck low-hanging awnings and projecting beams, and were unhorsed.
Despite the chaos a substantial number of humans stayed in the chase. And they were beginning to close in on the fleeing wagon. To press their point, they loosed a stream of arrows at it.
A bolt narrowly missed Coilla's head and zinged on over Haskeer's shoulder. He swore loudly and whipped the foaming horses. Another arrow landed at Wheam's feet, embedding itself in a plank. He froze, staring at it. Dallog pulled him to the floor and held him there. The arrows kept coming, zipping overhead and peppering the tailboard.
"Fuck this," Coilla growled. She took up her own bow and started returning fire.
Brelan, the only other one on board with a bow, followed her lead. The wagon juddered and shook so much that their first shots were wild. Then Coilla got a bead and sent a shaft into the chest of one of the leading humans. The force of the hit catapulted him from his mount. His falling body collided with the riders behind him, downing several more. But it didn't slow the rest.
It didn't do more than briefly interrupt the flow of arrows either. The only solace was that firing from the saddle spoilt the humans' aim. Bolts flew high, wide and low; a couple veered towards the wayside, narrowly missing onlookers. In the rear of the wagon Coilla and Brelan were bobbing up, firing, then bobbing back down. Their shots weren't much more accurate than the humans', but at least it kept them busy. At the wagon's front, Stryke and Haskeer were hunched, trying to offer the volatile bolts as small a target as possible.
"Damn!" Brelan cursed. "I'm out!"
Coilla loosed her final arrow. It missed. "Me too," she said.
They quickly ducked as a small swarm of shafts came back at them.
"Try this," Dallog said. He passed them a thick coil of rope.
Muscles rippling, Coilla flung it at the pursuers, like someone casting a heavy fishing net. Resembling an ungainly discus, the coil spun in a descending arc. It landed in the path of a rider. His horse came to grief on the obstacle, throwing him down to be trampled by the mounts behind. Pounded by hooves, the coil unravelled, tangling several more horses in lashing rope and adding to the confusion.
Brelan hefted an empty crate and launched it over the tailgate. It smashed when it hit the road, strewing wreckage and claiming more casualties. Meanwhile, Dallog and Wheam were zealously ripping up the planks that served as benches. Passed to Brelan and Coilla, the planks were hurled at the enemy. One human tried to catch the plank hurtling his way. The force of the impact carried him out of his saddle, slamming him to the ground still clutching his dubious prize.
"How much further, Brelan?" Stryke called out.
"Couple of blocks!" He realised where they were. "Take the next left! Here! Here! "
Haskeer tugged viciously on the reins. The wagon swerved sharply and took the corner half on the sidewalk. It also took out a kerbside stall, striking it square on and ploughing through its display of pottery. There was an explosion of broken bowls, flying platters and terracotta shards.
The road they entered was no less crowded. More so, as this was one of Taress' major junctions. The pedestrians who saw them coming ran for their lives.
Once it passed, the crowd closed again in the wagon's wake, only to have the horde of humans tear round the corner at their backs. The cavalry fell to hacking at them with sabres as they battled their way through.
The melee put a little distance between the orcs and the humans, but Haskeer didn't slow. At their rear, the humans were already emerging from the scrum and picking up speed again. By this time the street ahead was clearer, those further along having seen what was happening and made for cover.
Wheam was shouting. They all turned to look, and saw another wagon gaining on them. It was harnessed to a team of four horses, as opposed to their two, and carried five or six troopers. Haskeer urged on his team, but the greater horsepower of the humans' wagon had it rapidly closing the gap. In seconds it drew level. The occupants brandished swords, and a couple had spears. As the two wagons neared each other the orcs took up their own weapons and braced themselves.
The humans sideswiped the orcs with a bone-rattling crash. Swords met and the chatter of whetted steel commenced. There was little finesse. Hacking and slashing outbid grace, and the spur was frenzy.
Brelan spilt blood first. More by luck than judgement, one of his swings bit deep into a human's arm, nearly severing
it. The man screamed and fell back, showering his comrades with blood. Coilla was next in, driving forward and piercing somebody's lung. She withdrew quickly, narrowly avoiding the thrusts of blades and spears.
Emboldened, Wheam got to his feet and began hacking at the humans too. His efforts were spirited but feeble, his swipes erratic and wide of the mark. Then he overreached himself. As he leaned half out of the wagon, stretching to get to a target, his jerkin was grabbed by one of the humans. The man tugged mightily, doing his best to pull the tyro out. Struggling, Wheam let go of his sword. It clattered on the road and was lost. Another human joined in. Wheam started yelling. Coilla and Brelan got hold of him and tried hauling him back. A tug-of-war developed, with Wheam as the squealing rope.
Dallog joined in, slashing at the pullers. He caught a blade for his trouble. It raked his forearm, forcing him back.
"You all right?" Coilla said.
"Yes!" he shouted, winding a cloth around the wound to stanch the blood flow. "Look to Wheam!"
"Right," she replied grittily, and commenced yanking with more determination. Wheam carried on howling.
Up front, Stryke was crossing swords with his human counterpart opposite. The wagons were parting, then bumping and scraping together again, making their duel a strangely disjointed affair. When the gap widened, stretching Wheam and raising his yelping, Stryke and his foe could do no more than exchange scowls. When it closed, they resumed their hacking with renewed zeal.
In the back, they finally freed Wheam. Dragging him into the wagon, Coilla shoved him to the floor and barked, "Now stay down!"
"Watch out!" Brelan yelled.
Ahead, a driver had abandoned his hay wagon and made off in panic. It was side-on, blocking two-thirds of the highway, its pair of dray horses still hitched.
Haskeer had already seen it. He gave the reins an almighty heave, causing his frothing team to swerve sharply. They avoided the deserted wagon with a hairsbreadth to spare. Passing so close spooked the already nervous drays. They lumbered forward a few paces into the gap the orcs had just shot through, blocking more of the road.
The driver of the wagonload of humans, a heartbeat behind, saw the obstruction too late. He tried the same manoeuvre Haskeer had pulled off, tugging desperately on his reins in a bid to steer clear. But the turn was too sharp. The wagon tilted at a crazy angle. Then it jackknifed and went over, flinging its occupants out and crushing several. As it flipped, the shaft snapped, freeing its team. The quartet of horses bolted, dragging the shaft and striking sparks off the cobblestones.
"That's them fucked," Haskeer remarked.
"It's not over yet," Stryke told him, looking over his shoulder.
Their pursuers had reached the wreckage and were bodily shifting it. Those on horseback weaved around.
The orcs' wagon picked up speed again.
"One more turn!" Brelan shouted, indicating a road coming up on their left.
They took the bend at a fast clip, and found themselves in a narrower, much less crowded street. The humans were still at their backs.
As they progressed, Stryke and the others gave no sign of noticing the shadowy figures positioned in alleyways, in upper windows and on rooftops. They did drop speed, allowing the depleted pack of humans to catch up, but adopted a meandering course to prevent them overtaking.
Once the humans were bunched and slowed, the trap was sprung.
From their hideaways and high places, the resistance loosed a torrent of arrows on their cluster of targets. The cascade of bolts instantly struck down over a score of men. As many were wounded. Some took shelter behind their halted wagons, or used shields to deflect the shafts. Those who tried retreating found their escape route blocked; resistance confederates had rolled hijacked carts across the entrance to the street. Archers were stationed there too, adding to the storm.
Pounded from all sides, the militia lost interest in their quarry.
"Get us out of here," Stryke said.
Haskeer lashed the horses and they made off at a trot.
Under Brelan's direction, they weaved through Taress's back streets, keeping to a pace and demeanour they hoped wouldn't attract attention. After a number of twists and turns, taken partly to throw off anyone who might be following them, they arrived in a particularly ill-lit and dilapidated blind alley. It terminated at an apparently solid wooden wall, which to even a close observer passed for the rear of a building whose frontage presumably stood in an adjoining street. It was an illusion. The wall held cunningly concealed doors large enough to admit the wagon. It rolled in, and the doors were hastily secured behind it.
They got out of the wagon in an area the size of a barn. A couple of dozen resistance members were milling around, and several moved in to tend to the sweating horses. Somebody brought Dallog a flask of brandy and dressing for his wound. Brelan went off to report to his comrades.
Stryke jabbed a thumb doorward. "That gave 'em something to ponder."
Coilla stretched her back, fists balled. "Yeah. Went well."
" 'Cept for him," Haskeer complained, glaring at Wheam.
The tyro quaked and started babbling excuses.
"Ah, shut it," Haskeer growled.
"I was only trying to explain."
"Dribbling bullshit's what you're doing. As usual."
"Give the kid a break," Dallog said. "He's a tyro."
"And you're not?"
"I'm saying he's young. We should — "
"We? Not with us long enough to wipe your arse and you're telling me what's what." He was beginning to seethe.
"No," Dallog replied evenly, "I'm just telling you he needs to find his feet."
"He needs a backbone! He could've fucked the mission!"
"But he didn't."
"No, I didn't," Wheam echoed.
"I've had it with you two," Haskeer said menacingly. He took a step in Dallog's and Wheam's direction.
Stryke put himself in his path. "You running this band now?"
Haskeer took in his captain's expression. He said nothing and looked away.
"I've had enough of this shit," Stryke went on. "So cut the sniping." With a tilt of his head he indicated the resistance members busy at the far end of the room. "If any of these local orcs get wind of where we're really from — "
"Yeah, yeah," Haskeer muttered.
"I mean it, Haskeer. I won't let this thing get screwed by you or anybody else in the band. Got it?"
"Why we doing this?"
"What?"
"Why're we fooling around with these rebels when we should be trying to get the stars back?"
It was quite a speech for Haskeer, and for a second Stryke was stymied. In part, his hesitancy was due to the fact that he held himself responsible for the instrumentalities' loss. "We help the resistance 'cos it's right," he said at last. "As for the stars… I'm gonna find 'em."
"Well I wish you'd get on with it."
Haskeer held Stryke's gaze this time, and neither looked likely to back off.
"Lighten up," Coilla told them. "We've been in spots tight as this before."
"Have we?" Haskeer said.
Then he turned and walked away.
4
There was turbulence throughout Acurial, and particularly in its most densely inhabited sector, the capital city of Taress. Responding to civil unrest with a heavy hand, the human occupiers had further increased their repression. Known or suspected dissident haunts were torched. Public gatherings of any size were brutally dispersed. Wayward opinions were silenced. Arrests were arbitrary, torture routine, executions commonplace.
It was what the resistance wanted. Their attacks on the invaders were designed to bring about retribution, in hopes this would goad the citizens out of their passivity and reawaken their slumbering martial spirit. Fed by whispering campaigns, clandestine meetings and daubed slogans, sedition spread. And now the comet Grilan-Zeat hung in the sky for all to see, promising hope for those who believed.
Events balanced on a knife ed
ge, with revolution possible but by no means inevitable. To speed it on, the rebels determined to continue throwing oil on the smouldering embers. To this end the Wolverines had pledged their support.
Early morning saw the warband gathered in one of the resistance's growing number of safe houses. Though under the circumstances "safe" was a word they used loosely.
The humans Standeven and Pepperdyne were there, as were Brelan and his twin sister Chillder. Because of the latter pair — and in some minds the former — the warband were cagey while they were present. But once the twins left, tongues were loosened.
"I'm worried about what she's thinking," Jup said.
"Who?" Stryke wanted to know.
"Chillder. Her attitude's been different to me ever since she saw me using the farsight. Haven't you noticed?"
"No."
"Well, you haven't been stuck in these hideouts with the rebels as much as Spurral and me." There was more than a hint of resentment in the dwarf's tone.
"We told her you just had a hunch."
"But did she buy it?"
"Your warning stopped us walking into a trap. I reckon that made Chillder grateful enough not to question how you came up with it."
"I'm not so sure. Like I say, she's been cooler toward me ever since."
"She's a lot on her mind."
"Shit, Stryke," Jup flared, "it's bad enough that me and Spurral stand out so much as it is without them thinking I'm… odd."
"You are fucking odd," Haskeer muttered.
"There's no call for you to chip in on this," Spurral said, fixing him with a look of flint.
"Gods forbid I should take the piss out of somebody called Pinchpot," Haskeer mocked.
"Lay off," Jup warned, "I'm not in the mood."
"Fuck you."
"In your dreams."
Seeing the heat building, Stryke stepped in. " You," he said, pointing at Haskeer, "rest that jaw or I'll break it." He turned to Jup. "And you stop taking the bait. Any more bullshit and I'll be cracking skulls. Got it? "
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